Dandyism in the Stars
by I Was NotA Robot
Summary: If presented with the choice, she would pick bright and familiar over eccentric and foreign. And how could he blame her?


**I never really watched Shake It Up – in fact, I think that I've seen only a total of about four and a half episodes, all last Saturday on YouTube, and that's it. Sorry.**

 **While it was by far not the best Disney Show I'd seen, there was some charm to it, and characters and relationships that caught my eye. Personally, I thought that if Cece and Gunther ever got their little love-hate relationship off of the ground, then it would have potential.**

 **I worked a bit on possible Gunther characterization, and it's my own interpretation, so if I got him totally wrong (coughfourepisodescough), then I totally apologize.**

 **Definitions:**

 **Dandyism:** **1: the style or conduct of a dandy.** **2: a literary and artistic style of the latter part of the 19th century marked by artificiality and excessive refinement.**

* * *

If presented with the choice, she would pick bright and familiar over eccentric and foreign. Gunther knows that if Cece had a choice, she would choose Rocky over him. And how could he blame her?

They're good friends, after all – best friends. Cece and Rocky, the ditz and the dame, yin and yang, or as the Americans would say, 'the peanut to the jelly'. Even he knows that the two need each other, that they're as close as two girls could be in a platonic and sisterly sense.

 _And what of us? We're not even friends. She hates me_ , he reasons. But he knows that's not true – maybe in the beginning, the far, far back beginning filled with betwinkled sequins and exaggerated accents and a sense of pride only for the other's benefit, the hate was there. But pity dates and modeling poses and close encounters fill the bare moments in between now and then.

He's learned the hard way that protesting that he and Tinka aren't _freaks_ , they're just _different_ , is useless, because nobody listens, but if they do, they don't understand. His twin enforces the impression upon him that _they are better_ , _they are superior_ in every way, which isn't hard to believe, considering the strange American customs and systems.

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It's this concept that warps itself into a motive which spurs him into a passion. He allows himself to dive into the pursuit of it all, of being better, of being perfect, because if he's going to be in this show business for the long run, then he might as well be the best. He works himself in a daze that can only be described as a vaporous form of dandyism at its finest. He dances and smiles and sweats under the limelight until his eyelids and limbs droop from exhaustion, and his nimble fingers are coated in glitter that shines and sparkles like stars plucked from the sky.

* * *

They are perfect, the twins are. They are the _best_ , until the girl with red hair and porcelain skin shows up, a snarky quality to her voice and a glint in her eye. She is devilish and angelic all at once, and she burns bright. Too bright. This girl reduces him (and his hard work) into the fumbling, bumbling teenager that he really is. And he hated her (for it), he really did.

She is self-centered but caring, passionate but occasionally unmotivated. Bright, but easily dampened. Talented, but short-sighted of her own potential. Able to see the bigger picture around her, but unable to take a step forward. He watches her struggle through the thorny thicket that he's learned to call _life_ , and feels an urge to reach out a hand to her, to scream at her to _take it._

But he never offers her this hand, and she never tries to take it.

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* * *

The point is, they aren't friends, not really. She is far to accustomed with herself and the small world around her for anything to really work. The more he thinks about it, the more he's convinced of it. But what would it matter? Loving and losing, and not loving at all, had nothing to do with returning to his old country. He tried to tell them _(her)_ about this decision, but the words stuck in his throat.

He'll miss them. He'll miss her. He'll miss _here._

As much as he hates the feeling of hundreds of thousands of strangers jostling past him in the middle of Chicago, which is dirty, cramped, and faded compared to New York, the light and sound that never leaves is a pleasant aftertaste.

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His suitcase is backed, and the handle feels like lead in his hand, cold and heavy and burdensome.

He ducks a head through the doorway of the apartment that's become so familiar now _(too familiar),_ and looks around. He almost hopes that no one's home, that there will be no one here to say goodbye to _(because that would make things easier, easier, so much easier)._

And his eyes almost fool him into thinking that the room is empty, until he catches a glimpse of red hair and porcelain skin.

He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. She knows now, and the suitcase in hand says it all for her. She flings herself at him (this, he wasn't expecting), and a smaller body hits his and a floral scent hits his nostrils and a familiar feeling hits his heart all at the same time.

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He closes his eyes and breathes her in.

For a moment, he can see the stars.


End file.
